


in a shallow sleep

by marmolita



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Ghosts, Haunting, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 07:54:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11642214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marmolita/pseuds/marmolita
Summary: "I had another dream about Charles last night," Jack tells Anne over lunch."So?""So, this is the third time in as many days.  What do you suppose it means?"Anne stirs her soup disinterestedly.  "It don't have to mean anything."(The Ghost!Charles story nobody asked for.)





	in a shallow sleep

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the credit for this existing goes to [wildehack](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tyleet/pseuds/wildehack) who spent endless hours talking to me about the idea, as well as providing a couple key lines of dialogue. <3 There is not enough Charles/Jack in the world, so I'm doing my small part to rectify the situation. :D Title is from Hyde's "Shallow Sleep."
> 
> There's use of the word "whore" to refer to a sex worker at one point but I don't think any other warnings are necessary.

_Cannon fire splinters the wood of the gunwale next to him as Jack slices open the throat of a seaman, cutlass getting stuck in the man's collarbone next to his navy epaulets. He goes down, and Jack yanks his blade free and turns to fight another. Anne is in the middle of the fray as always, sunlight glinting off of her blades as she whirls in a cloud of blood and guts. Jack struggles to push back the man who is attacking him, until a pistol shot echoes and the man collapses, leaving Jack with a clear view of Charles holding the smoking gun. Charles nods at him, then turns to block another sword as Teach's_ Revenge _comes around broadsides to the other ship and blows enough holes in her that there's no need to board, the ship is sure to go down._

_The battle is over shortly, one ship sunk, one ship theirs. There's a party, after, on the beach of the harbor the ships had been hiding in. Another victory against England, another few months of time bought for a free Nassau and for free men. Anne has never cared for these sort of celebrations, so she returns to the ship when she sees that Charles is there, like it's some sort of bodyguard shift change for Jack, though Jack has never thought of either of them as a bodyguard. He supposes they do both look out for him in their own ways._

_He approaches the fire where Charles sits with Teach, still vibrating with adrenaline from their victory. Charles has blood streaked down the side of his face, matting up his hair, spilled across his legs, but all Jack sees is the brightness in his eyes and the hint of a smile at his lips. He dimly realizes that he's still got blood on himself as well, but Charles is getting up to greet him, and Jack finds the blood is the last thing on his mind. Charles still looks as proud of him as he did the first time Jack had fought and come out of it alive, and they stand there for a moment grinning at each other._

*

"I had another dream about Charles last night," Jack tells Anne over lunch.

"So?"

"So, this is the third time in as many days. What do you suppose it means?"

Anne stirs her soup disinterestedly. "It don't have to mean anything."

Jack sighs, sopping up the last of his soup with a crust of bread. "It's so _vivid_ , Anne, like he's here, like I just saw him yesterday and we're going to go sailing with him tomorrow. Us and him and Teach, all part of a pirate fleet, sailing on the account as it was years ago. I'm even fighting in the vanguard."

"That's how you know you're dreaming," Anne says with a slight smile.

"Yes, well. Perhaps tonight I can drink myself into a stupor and not have to have any dreams again. God knows there's nothing else to do around here." The storm season has stopped them from sailing for a time, and Jack has found himself at loose ends. Max has Nassau's businesses well under control, and while Jack ostensibly still owns the brothel, it hardly needs his input to keep running. These dreams about Charles have been tugging at something inside him that feels like it's been lost along the way this past year, some buried desire to be the kind of pirate that Charles would have been, if he'd lived.

It's not that he's not a pirate, but he's a _civilized_ pirate. He's always been that way, wanting a life of comfort, leaving behind a legacy but one that doesn't require him to be shipwrecked or starved or beaten. He's had his share of that and doesn't want to do any of it again, not really.

"You got everything you ever fucking wanted and you complain about being bored," Anne observes.

Jack sighs as Anne gets up to leave. "Not everything," he mutters under his breath.

***

_Charles still looks proud of him, and they stand there for a moment grinning at each other._

_Jack isn't sure which of them moves first, but somehow Charles is kissing him, or he's kissing Charles -- it doesn't matter, because Jack's heart is full and Charles's mouth is hot and insistent. They pause for breath, and Jack sees Teach get up from the fire, rolling his eyes at them fondly as he retreats. Charles is on him again in a moment, careless of who might be watching, never ashamed, never concerned with what others think of him. It's intoxicating._

_Charles pulls him down by the neck and slides his tongue into Jack's mouth, and Jack's hands brush over the taut fabric of Charles's shirt, feeling the hard muscle beneath. "Shall we retire back to the ship?" Jack asks breathlessly as Charles moves down to nip at his neck._

_He feels Charles's grin against his skin. "Let them fucking watch," he says, and kicks Jack's legs out from under him._

*

Jack wakes up with a start, the feeling of Charles's presence all around him, his cock achingly hard under the thin sheet that covers him. "Fuck," he breathes, rolling onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. He blinks once, twice, and a tear runs down his cheek into his ear. If he had run with Charles when Rogers arrived, if he hadn't gone when the militia showed up, if he had _rescued_ Charles, then maybe-- maybe--

"Fuck," he says again, louder, swallowing the lump in his throat. Everything he ever wanted, and Charles hung by the neck and dumped into an unmarked grave. He rubs his hands over his face, then forces himself out of bed.

*

"That's _my_ ledger," Max says, raising an eyebrow as Jack flips the pages. "And that's _my_ desk."

"Yes, yes, I know." He scans the list of goods received, tapping his fingers on his thigh, until Max clears her throat. She's leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. "Is something wrong?"

Max steps forward and closes the book, taking it out of his hands. "What are you doing, Jack?"

He sighs, chagrined. "Keeping _busy_ , I suppose. There's got to be _something_ I can do around here until the storms pass."

Max furrows her brows in thought, causing a tiny wrinkle to appear on her forehead. It's actually rather adorable. Well, Anne thinks it's adorable, anyway, though she would never say as much -- Jack has caught her looking and smiling enough to know. "Very well," she says finally, "you can tally the accounts for the brothel. I need to know how much we owe in taxes."

She pulls another book from her desk and hands it to him, showing him the page to start on, and Jack gets to work. Years roaming the sea on the account, and now he's paying fucking _taxes_. Charles must be rolling over in his grave.

***

_"Let them fucking watch," Charles says, kicking Jack's legs out from under him._

_He hits the sand, and Charles goes down on top of him, rolling his hips into Jack's even as he fumbles his own sword belt off. The firelight flickers across Charles's features, highlighting the curves of his cheekbones, the shape of his torso, the hungry expression on his face. He's gorgeous, solid and powerful and_ dangerous _and Jack wants all of it. Charles runs a hand down Jack's side and Jack arches into the touch, tugging at his own clothes._

_Then somehow they're naked, and Jack's lying with his legs spread and Charles between them, one hand on Jack's cock and one in his ass, and it's almost more than he can bear. Charles climbs up his body, kisses Jack fiercely, then pushes himself in. "Christ, Charles," Jack breathes as Charles bottoms out, "Fucking Christ."_

_All Charles says is, "Jack," as he's mouthing at the corner of Jack's jaw. "Jack," as he begins to move. "Jack," as he captures Jack's lips again, surprisingly tender. "Jack--"_

*

" _Jack_ ," the whisper echoes, and Jack starts out of bed, the sudden friction of the sheets on his cock tipping him over into a miserable orgasm. There's nobody in the room, but Jack could have sworn he heard Charles's voice _after_ waking up. He stares at the mess in his lap, then leans his head against the wall with a thump.

"Get the fuck out of my head, Charles," he mutters. "You're _dead_." And then somehow there are the tears again, trickling from his eyes, heedless of his rational thoughts and desires. "You're dead," he repeats, letting his head hit the wall again. "You're _fucking dead_."

(Go, Charles had told him, _go_ , and he'd gone. He'd fucking gone because who would refuse an order from Charles Vane, given twice? He'd gone because Charles had always come out of the most impossible situations victorious. He'd gone because Charles demanded nothing less than complete loyalty.

He'd gone because he was afraid.)

The cup on table next to him jitters, then falls over, clanking to the floor. Jack didn't think he'd bumped the table, but he's not exactly thinking clearly. There's a storm raging outside, making the shutters rattle; there must have been an errant gust of wind. He picks up the cup and looks at it. The metal is surprisingly cold, given how warm the air is.

*

"You've checked the books four times," Max says. "They're fine."

A crack of lightning briefly illuminates the room, then the walls tremble as thunder rolls through. Jack shoves the books across the desk to Max. "Right then, give me something else to do before I go _fucking_ insane." Max looks to Anne, lounging in the corner, who shrugs. "Oh come now, don't look at each other like that. This is hardly the first time we've been stuck on land during bad weather."

"First time you've been in such a snit about it," Anne says. Jack puts his hand over his face, sighing. "You still having those dreams?"

Jack glares at her through his fingers. Anne knows him well enough to know that's an answer in and of itself.

"Dreams?" Max asks curiously.

"'bout Charles," Anne says.

"Yes, well, they've taken on a decidedly different tone the last few nights."

"Different how?" Anne asks, perching on the corner of the desk.

"Just-- different." He gestures vaguely with his hands, hoping that Anne will know what he's thinking as she so often does.

"I see," Max says suddenly.

"You see what? What do you see?"

"A woman like me knows what men are thinking." She comes to stand next to Anne, her arm sliding around Anne's waist. "You haven't been with any of the girls at the brothel. You haven't been with Anne. You need to get laid, Jack, it's been too long."

"I don't want a _woman_ , Max, I really don't think that will help at all."

Anne glances at Jack, then at Max. "Let her take care of it," Anne says. "I can tell her what you need."

"I don't get a say in this, do I?"

"You could stop fucking annoying the shit out of all of us," Anne replies, "but I don't see that happening."

"Oh, for-- Fine! Fine, do what you will. I suppose anything's worth a try if it'll get rid of these damn dreams."

*

Max finds him two days later, dicing in the gaming parlor at the brothel. He'd had another dream the previous night, and the night before, each time waking up with his heart and his cock aching. At least this time he'd managed not to touch himself, instead waiting for his erection to subside in the unseasonably cool air in his room. He's starting to think he needs to move to a new room -- the air is often chilly now, and the wind has been somehow getting through the shutters and knocking things off his shelves.

Tonight, though, he's been dicing, until Max pulls him away upstairs. "Really," he says, "I don't think this will help."

"Give it a try," she says. "You'd be surprised how well you sleep after a good fuck." With that, she opens the door and ushers him through it, closing it behind him.

Inside the room is-- well, a whore, he supposes, but it's a man, naked and hard and sitting on the bed stroking himself. He's good-looking, Jack has to admit, broad-shouldered and muscular, not what he would have expected from a male prostitute. The man gets up and walks forward until Jack is backed against the wall, then palms Jack's cock, which is rapidly rising to the occasion. "Hello, Captain Rackham. Name's Robin, but you can call me whatever you want," the man says. "Heard you want to get fucked." Jack swallows. He tries to focus on the here and now, this man in front of him with a hand that feels so good, but he can't help comparing. Robin is taller than Charles, just a smidge, and his voice is quite a bit higher. His hair is short, and his hands aren't quite so big, and god _damn_ it Jack needs to stop thinking about Charles so he leans down and kisses the whore.

Jack lets himself put his hands on Robin's shoulders, feeling the smoothness of muscle shifting under skin. It feels-- good, it feels good, so he lets Robin open his shirt and his belt. His shirt is barely hanging off his shoulders but Jack feels cold, somehow, so he presses closer. Robin's hand closes around his cock and Jack groans. Maybe Max was right, maybe it's just been too long.

Still, something in his gut feels _wrong_. Robin ruts against his hip and Jack flashes back to his dream of Charles, pushing him down into the sand. Sex with Charles -- _dream_ sex with Charles -- was something else, something _more_. It's not just the sex he wants, it's the _more_ , and he must have had rather a lot to drink because for a moment he can almost see Charles there in the room with him, staring at him from just over Robin's shoulder, can almost hear his voice saying, " _Jack_ ," and it's just _too much_.

"Wait, stop--" he says, starting to push Robin away, when there's a crash as the table of oils tips over.

Robin jerks back, looking at the table in surprise.

"I'm sorry, really," Jack babbles, "I can't do this, but I'll pay anyway, just-- just let Max know, alright? Alright," and he does up his pants and shoves his way out the door.

*

When he gets to his room, there's a wrapped package on the bed. He sinks down next to it and flips open the card, which reads:

_Got you this in case you need it._

It's Anne's hand, so he unties the paper. Pulling it away slowly, he laughs as a wooden phallus is revealed. Somehow, he's not surprised that Anne knew he wouldn't be able to go through with having sex with a whore, not when-- not when that's not what he really wants.

He's still half-hard from the encounter, though, and he thinks, well, maybe if he gets off _before_ going to sleep he won't have another wet dream. He strips out of his clothes and digs up a jar of gun oil, then lays back on his bed. This time, he lets himself remember the dream. This time, he lets himself remember _Charles_ , as he was, proud and ruthless and strong.

As Jack coats his hand in the oil, he remembers the first time he met Charles. He remembers watching while Charles followed Teach around, growing more and more dissatisfied with being second in command. Fingering his hole, he remembers walking in on Charles and Eleanor more times than he cares to think, remembers Charles's hands on her slim hips, the muscles of Charles's back shifting as he moved against her. He oils up the phallus and remembers the first time Anne used one on him, how she'd known that it was what he wanted, what he needed. He'd always been attracted to Charles, but he'd never considered doing anything about it, not when he had Anne. Anne was enough. Anne had been enough.

Pushing the phallus in slowly, inch by inch, he remembers Charles's face when he'd found out that Jack was the one who had the Urca gold. He remembers how lost he'd felt, without Anne, and how he'd grown closer to Charles. He remembers sending Charles after a slave ship, knowing in his heart how hard it would be, and facing down Charles's anger about it.

He remembers Charles sitting next to him amongst piles of gold, letting slip bits and pieces of his past.

He remembers holding Charles close when the bounty was put out, and Charles saying, _fuck you, Jack_.

Closing his hand around his cock with tears prickling the corners of his eyes, he remembers Charles yelling _go_. He remembers letting Anne convince him not to get revenge for Charles's death. He remembers convincing Teach of the same.

It's so close, everything is so close, Charles's presence and Jack's guilt and the fucking rising tide of his own pleasure. He can almost hear Charles calling his name, almost see--

No, he actually _does_ see Charles leaning over him on the bed, looking at him then away, muttering, "Fuck, Jack," and he's so startled that he comes all over his hands and belly.

The apparition doesn't disappear.

Jack scrambles for the bedsheets, heart racing, and backs himself against the wall, clutching the sheets around him. "Ch-- Charles? What the _fuck_?!"

"Been trying to get you to see me for months," Charles says, and he-- well, he _sounds_ like Charles, and he _looks_ like Charles, only he also looks like he's not _quite there_ , not really.

"Y-- You're dead," Jack says stupidly.

"Figured as much." Charles reaches for a cup on Jack's table, and his hand passes through it.

"Jesus Christ." Jack stares, stares some more, considers screaming, then thinks better of it and coughs instead. "Are you a-- a _ghost_?"

Charles shrugs. "Guess so. They hung me, I died, then there I was, following you around while you let Nassau fall and went off to Philadelphia." Under the bedsheets, Jack pulls the phallus out of his ass and wriggles into his trousers, cheeks flushing as he wipes himself clean with his shirt. "I thought at first I could go anywhere, see anything, maybe this was the afterlife," Charles continues, "but turns out I can't get twenty feet away from you without getting stuck right back here."

"Are you _haunting_ me?"

"How the fuck should I know? All I know is I'm stuck with you, can't get away, and every time I try to communicate with you you start having fucking wet dreams." Charles glares at him and Jack's face burns.

". . . they're all about you," Jack admits. "There's been no one else since-- since Anne, no one since you died." He squints at Charles, whose face is unreadable. He seems mostly solid, but blurry and transparent around the edges. "I thought ghosts usually appeared when they had unfinished business. What unfinished business--" A thought hits him, and Jack's heart plummets. "Oh God, you're here because I didn't get revenge for you when you died. I wanted to, I was ready to walk into Hell for you, but Anne-- she thought you would've wanted us to move on, she thought you wouldn't want us to risk everything for that. And Teach died too, and you're probably angry that I let him die, that it was all my fault, that--"

"She was right," Charles says. "Besides, you _did_ get my revenge. Woodes Rogers is dead. Dead with no honor. I saw the letter you wrote." Jack's surprised at the flood of relief he feels. Charles flickers, disappearing briefly, then solidifying again and sitting next to Jack on the bed.

"If not that, then why are you here?"

Charles looks at him hard. "Perhaps you're keeping me here," he says slowly. "I'm chained to you, somehow. There must be something you want from me."

"I don't know," Jack says irritably, "to kiss you, maybe?"

It's halfway a joke, and Jack doesn't know what he was expecting, but it wasn't for Charles to lean towards him, head tilting to the side just a touch, and actually try to kiss him. _Try_ , because all Jack feels is an icy breeze on his lips, and then Charles is pulling away again, frowning.

"Ah, well, it was worth a try," Jack says to lighten the mood. Lighten the mood with a fucking _ghost_ , Charles is a _ghost_ , he's _dead_ , Jack was just _kissed by a dead man_. But instead of being horrified, he's only disappointed. His heart had leapt into his throat when Charles had leaned toward him, and now it seems to have settled somewhere near his stomach, thumping hard enough to make him queasy.

Charles makes an abortive movement, reaching for Jack's hand where it rests on his thigh, then pulling back. "Jack," he says, "you have to let me go."

"That's what you told me, the last time I saw you," Jack says. Charles looks at him, and Jack smiles sadly. " _Go_ , you said. We left you there to be taken by the militia. When we got to the beach, you know, Flint wanted to go after you himself. Would have, if Billy hadn't talked him out of it. Billy talked us all out of it, said he would rescue you, him and a few others. But he didn't, did he?"

"He tried." Charles leans back and looks up at the ceiling. "He was there, in the square, with his friends from the _Walrus_."

"Then what the fuck happened?"

Charles is silent for a moment, then shakes his head. "You didn't try to kill Eleanor, because it wouldn't have helped the cause. That's what you told Teach, isn't it? Charles wouldn't have wanted this, you said, and you were right, Jack. You were fucking _right_. I told Billy not to save me. I stepped off the cart and hung myself, because what mobilizes an army of followers is a martyr."

"Jesus, Charles."

"You did the right thing. You don't have anything to feel . . . guilty about, or whatever it is you're feeling."

Jack stares down at his hand, next to Charles's on the bed. His hand is solid and warm; Charles's hand is icy and blurred. "Then I have your forgiveness?" he asks. "Even though we didn't end up with a free Nassau? Even though Teach lost his life over it? Even though-- even though I'm not the kind of pirate you would have been?"

"I forgave you for sending me after a slave ship, didn't I?" Charles smiles sideways at him, and Jack feels lighter, the weight of his guilt easing just a bit. Charles flickers again, in and out of reality, then looks into the distance, brows drawing together.

"What is it?"

"There's a light, over there." Charles gestures vaguely at the wall behind Jack. "Maybe your guilt is what was keeping me here." He looks down at himself, turning his hands over and examining them. Silence falls between them.

Finally, Charles says, "There's something else, isn't there?"

Jack swallows. "I don't want you to leave, not now that I know you're here, not when I can-- can _see_ you again, can _talk_ to you." Quietly, he adds, "I don't want you to leave me."

"I know." Charles looks at that distant point again, then back at Jack. He covers Jack's hand with his own, and for a moment, it feels solid. Cold, but solid. Jack clenches his jaw against the sob that wants to escape. "You won't forget me."

Jack shakes his head helplessly. "I-- I loved you, Charles," he confesses miserably. "I don't know when it started, maybe after Anne left me, maybe before, but I was in love with you. I'm still-- I love you." As much as he wants him to stay, he knows that this is it, that he has to let Charles go.

Charles is smiling at him, more whole and solid than he was a moment before. "Fuck you, Jack," he says, and he leans in and presses his lips to Jack's. This time, he can feel him, warm and gentle, and then the kiss melts into an icy breeze. When Jack opens his eyes, Charles is gone.

He cries himself to sleep, but he doesn't dream.

**Author's Note:**

> The line about nobody refusing an order from Charles Vane given twice comes directly from [an interview with Toby Schmitz on the Fathoms Deep podcast](https://commonroomradio.com/2017/01/23/interview-with-toby-schmitz-and-jack-rackham/), where he discussed why he thought Jack and Anne had left Charles there.
> 
> Another million thanks to @wildehack for beta, cheerleading, and being a fellow Charles/Jack shipper.


End file.
